Scraps of Paper
by we are infinite
Summary: Here, Hermione has nothing to grip ahold of except the only reminder of Him that she has left, a scrap of paper.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter.

**Summary:** Here, Hermione Granger has nothing to grip hold of but the scrap of paper that's held tightly in her hand.  
**Rating: **PG-13

A/N: I want to take this note and create a lovely thank you for my_ brilliantly brilliant_ BETA Amelia Bedelia.

**

* * *

**

Scraps of Paper

They say a picture is worth a thousand words.

But to Hermione Granger, two words were enough to silence her. She sits in her empty and forsaken room, wishing that things could've been different.

If perhaps the Dark Lord hadn't existed, Harry would have been a light-hearted boy, filled with nothing but happiness. Neville would have been an adventurous male with significantly more confidence, basking in affection from his loving parents. However, Ginny would never have become the strong-willed girl she was now. Ron—well let's say Ron would never have had such a noble friend.

But the main path Hermione's thoughts were following, was that Draco would have never been a boy of malevolence, or a boy who desired to control and embrace power in the palm of his hand.

She reminisced on the times when she was at Hogwarts. She would pretend that it was the present, and not some distant memory.

The willow tree right by the lake was the perfect place to sit and read. Once in a while, she would glance up towards the sky and watch Harry and Ron wave enthusiastically from their broomsticks, hovering over the Quidditch Pitch. Then she would grin as Ginny hurtled towards the two, seizing the chance to knock the boys off their brooms. If Ginny were to succeed, which was often the case, Hermione would be leaning against the tree, with both arms wrapped around her waist, her body racking with raucous laughter.

Hermione shook her head. Those days were clearly past.

Draco was a different matter altogether. She caught him staring in her direction several times during History of Magic when Professor Binns was giving a tedious lecture on the importance of the Spectyrs in the Troll and Goblin War. A glare seemed not to suffice, so she took her quill in hand and scrawled on a scrap of paper:

_Stop staring Malfoy._

She saw him smirk at her note and possibly—was that a snort? He sent one back nonetheless.

_Granger, you're just paranoid. If there was any staring to be done, it would be done by you. _

It was her turn to respond with a loud snort.

_Narcissist; ironic isn't it? _

The gleam in his eye sparkled.

_Want to go to Hogsmeade with me?_

What in the world? Hermione sat there, thoroughly taken aback. What was he playing at?

As the bell rang, she hastily tucked the note into her pocket.

"So—what's your answer Granger?" Draco drawled behind her, his face tinged with pink. She blatantly ignored him and walked briskly past without so much of a glance.

Hermione chuckled; she recalled the bitter look on his face afterwards, the anger and humiliation of being disregarded that way by a mere _Mudblood. _His nonchalant demeanour afterwards made her think twice. Her heart felt guilty; maybe she shouldn't have been so ignorant.

That weekend in Honeydukes was a quiet one.

Harry was off on his Firebolt, flying around the Quidditch Pitch—something he never seemed to get tired of. His Firebolt was the only token left by Sirius. Ron was in the Hog's Head with Lavender—they had settled their predicament weeks before.

With the exception of an annoying presence in the far corner, Hermione was having quite a pleasant afternoon with the company of her Butterbeer.

She could no longer taste the sweet liquid again; it brought back too many painful memories. Firewhiskey seemed to be her only savior that drowned all her sorrows. As the liquid slid down her throat, her head would feel lighter, her body would warm, and her troubles would slowly ebb away.

He had purposely levitated her mug, emptying the remaining contents all over her work; all eighteen inches of that parchment. She was beyond livid. She had worked on Snape's essay for over six hours and this was her reward: a prank from the insufferable ferret.

She grinned and laughed as she remembered that incident. She had ordered a Butterbeer for him, and inscribed at the bottom of the mug was written: _Draco Malfoy the insufferable prat_. He had of course laughed it off, and sent the mug flying at her head. It had all been good fun.

Then came the unsuspecting war.

A whirlwind of devastation had been caused; there was blood, screaming, weeping and desperate cries of mercy everywhere. The metallic and musty smell filled the air, as if you could taste the pain and suffering. She had held onto Draco as support. He would soothe and calm her, saying things about himself, as if retelling a story. She would in return, tell things about Ron, Harry and herself. And then everything turned upside down.

She never thought it would come back to haunt her. The events ahead happened so fast she had no time to react.

"Father," Draco said. "The Mudblood has given me precious information."

"What is it Draco?"

Amidst the barren land of destruction which the War took place; she had just arrived outside the tent of Voldemort's right-hand man, Lucius Malfoy. Her breathing was shallow and her lips were dry. All around her she could see Death. She prayed with all her might that he was lying, that he wasn't selling them all out.

And when he stepped back into the fierce wind, she had not a word to say to him.

"What are you doing here?" he questioned, his eyes searching hers, panicked.

"Looking for you, Draco," she said. The bitterness of betrayal could not be heard in her tone of voice.

His face softened and he embraced her, pulling her body close against his. "I love you Hermione," he whispered to her hair. "Don't ever forget."

Till now, she never did. The constant reminder that was clutched in her hand never let her disregard her feelings either.

Those words came back to haunt her.

It wasn't long, probably a few hours later that Voldemort had cackled as Harry dropped to the ground, dead. It tore her apart, clawing at her insides, knowing that she could've prevented it from happening. Ron had been mercilessly tortured by several Death Eaters. She had not seen it herself, but heard Ron's screams. Her dreams are filled with his screams, and it kills her everyday.

The accusing shouts and screams when she confronted Draco, and then only to find him gone. All that was left: a pensieve and a scrap of paper.

The pensieve had shown her the power-hungry boy she grew to love. When Lucius beat him to mold into the perfection of malice he was now. She saw those cherished moments: when Draco announced to everyone, including the Slytherins how he loved _her, _and the look on Pansy's jealous face, as well as the outraged look on Ron's and Harry's.

There was one memory in particular that disturbed her the most.

"Potter and Weasley will be leading at the front. The rest of the sordid Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors will be on the left," Draco elaborated to Lucius. "The Ravenclaws will be defending on the right, towards the West of Hogwarts."

The plan was drawn out on parchment.

"I have taught you well, Draco," Lucius commended, allowing the corners of his mouth to twist into a strained smirk. "The Dark Lord will want to hear more."

"Yes Father," he replied. With that, Lucius disappeared with a whoosh into the flickering green flames.

Exiting the tent calmly Draco stood up straight, and without any warning Draco set the parchment on fire. "Incendio," he whispered. Bitterness was evident in his voice. He kicked at the dirt at his feet, and punched the thick canvas of the tent with such ferocity.

"I didn't mean for this to happen," he whispered finally, smoothing back his hair. "I never meant for the War to come. Believe me." It was as if he was trying to convince someone other than himself; _Her._

She was kneeling as she watched this memory, helplessly crying. She knew deep inside he had never meant to do it, all this betrayal. But strangely she couldn't bring herself to truly convince herself.

The surprising thing was that she still loved him despite everything. And that remorse she felt for Ron and Harry was in no comparison to the love that she had undergone for Draco.

The hatred she felt for Voldemort was strong. But what was she to do? She was frail and worthless. And when he had slaughtered the innocent, he took over the Ministry. Chaos soon ensued.

She knew Draco had saved her through influence in Voldemort's Inner Circle. All Mudbloods were sentenced to death, yet she miraculously seemed to be placed here.

That's why she sits here in this room—this cell in the bitter North—the one they call Azkaban.

Each time it came to feed the prisoners; Nott or Avery would pass her cell; they always recall Hermione's dirt-ridden face with a smile playing across her lips and a defiant look in her eyes, as though the Dementors couldn't suck out her clandestine ecstasy. And her thoughts—well they were elsewhere, thinking of a certain someone.

_He won't give up on me, _she reflected as she tentatively unravelled the wrinkled paper.

She smoothed out the creases of the only reminder she had left; a note which holds everything so dear to her.

_Draco Malfoy._


End file.
